


Catch me (if I should fall)

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Eventual Smut, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by The Fall of Icarus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Minotaur James, OT3, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Qrow Branwen Needs a Hug, Qrow gets burned AND drowned, Qrow with wings, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Ruby with wings, Whump, a tiny bit of jealousy, but he can get railed and ridden at the same time as a treat, demigod Clover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29862342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: Qrow’s memory isn’t what it used to be. Each line, each corner of the maze is as hazy as a drop of wine turbulently swirling through water, and the wine used to ease the pain, used to ease the certainty that there is no hope. For now there is hope, maybe there is hope, but there isn’t very much the architect’s alcohol-addled mind can do to stop his stylus from stuttering into silence on the having traced but ruined remnants of an outline.He cannot tell Ruby that, nor can he tell her that Clover's fingers instead traced new maps, new mazes, new memories that haunt Qrow’s body as they cartographed his skin, just as his mouth whispered into Qrow’s ear that it was alright, that he was doing his best, that he deserved to be held and touched and worshipped in all his imperfect entirety.
Relationships: Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	Catch me (if I should fall)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrianneABanana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrianneABanana/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday Banan! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Warnings: some descriptions of burning and drowning.

“Uncle Qrow, please tell me a story.”

She lay on his lap, staring wide-eyed at the sky above and the birds flying by. Her pallid face is covered in grime, her copper-tinted hair is mussed and full of feathers, but her silver irises are as bright as ever - as bright as he has ever seen them in his life, with the newfound sobriety their imprisonment enforced upon Qrow. There is a clarity, a fleeting clarity in his mind, only clouded by hunger and despair now that he hasn’t drunk for days, perhaps even weeks? He cannot remember for how long he and Ruby have been trapped in the maze of his own design, since King Schnee threw them there as a slow, painful, lethal punishment. 

“I’ve told you all the stories I know, pipsqueak.”

She knows he has run out of stories. She knows, so her face does not fall in dismay at his reply. He knows she knows. It is a game of pretense they play, just so that the silence within the labyrinth’s cold, hard, tall stone walls cannot drive them into insanity.

“Then tell me the story of the lucky demigod again.”

He does not like that story. It is the story of his downfall, the story of why he ended up trapped in here till the end of his days, alongside his innocent, unfortunate niece. He does not like that story, but he still sees why she likes it.

“Once upon a time, there was a benevolent King, who was as wise as his Queen was beautiful. King Nicholas Schnee fought every day of his life for his people, expanding his kingdom’s territory and conquering numerous islands neighbouring Atlas, opening new trade routes and forging new alliances. But he had little time to see or care for his Queen, or their firstborn child, a daughter. So when the Queen gave birth to a strange, inhuman, dangerous creature, the King could not tell who fathered his wife’s offspring. Some said this was the child of a god enamoured with the Queen’s beauty, some said it was sired by a monster, or even the result of a sorceress’s curse. Tragically, the Queen died in childbirth, and stricken by grief and pain, King Nicholas succumbed soon after. He did however wed his only daughter, now Queen Willow, to one of the kingdom’s richest merchants, a certain Jacques Gelée.”

“You mean King Jacques Schnee?”

Around them, the crows and doves flutter down as Ruby pets them, glimmers of iridescent white on their wings.

“Shh, kiddo, you’ve heard this story enough times to know where it’s going. Jacques, however, was no benevolent monarch. As soon as he realised how dangerous the creature, his wife’s half-brother, could be, he had me design an inescapable maze to keep it trapped, and used it as a sadistic way to execute anyone who dares question his authority. Any political opponents, any rival merchants were thrown into the maze, and none of them ever came out alive. If they weren’t murdered by the beast, they were slain by the maze, condemned to wander its endless meanders and entrails until they collapsed from starvation and insanity, for I have built this maze such that each intersection looks identical to the previous, and no way out can be found from the inside.”

What is ironic is that he himself cannot find his way out, despite the tortuous plans coming from the tortured depths of his convoluted mind, because the King’s ordered the entrance to be sealed, so that this maze of his own invention will be their tomb, and there is no escape, there never has been an escape from this tyranny. Now, even the sweet escape of heady summer wines is out of his reach, but he cannot tell Ruby that.

“The years went by, and Jacques’s tyrannical reign remained unchallenged. One day, Queen Willow birthed a daughter, princess Winter, who grew up to be as beautiful as her mother and her grandmother before her. When she came of age, her father promised her hand to whomever would enter the maze, vanquish the creature, and come out unscathed. That way, anyone wishing to claim the throne through the princess’s hand in marriage either perished or was too deterred to try.”

“But one stormy night...” she anticipates, a twinkle in her eyes at her approaching favourite part of the story.

“But one stormy night, a ship miraculously makes it to the harbour, but that alone isn’t surprising. Aboard it sails a demigod with striking sea green eyes, glittering in the faint moonlight, but that isn’t surprising either, many men these days claim they’re the son of some naiad or some other sea deity, imbuing them with good luck or some other nonsense. Of course, he’s here for Princess Winter’s hand, and he proclaims he’ll slay the monster in the maze, just as countless others announced before him and died trying.”

“But he was different?”

“Indeed, he was different. All those who came before him spent time training at arms, boasting feats of strength to seduce the fair princess, though she remained distant and icy despite their courtship. This demigod, Clover, seemed to have little interest in the Princess, but sought for my advice as to how to find his way through my labyrinth. I asked her why he was so eager to die trying, if he didn’t care for the blue eyes of one Winter Schnee. And he said that if he had her hand in marriage, he hoped to make the kingdom a better place. He said that there was hope. He said that there was still hope.”

Qrow can see it in her eyes. This is her favourite part. The part where the demigod brings hope, hope that cannot and will not be extinguished. 

He does not tell her that Clover asked for the maze’s maps, but the King had them burnt, and Qrow’s memory isn’t what it used to be. Each line, each corner is as hazy as a drop of wine turbulently swirling through water, and the wine used to ease the pain, used to ease the certainty that there is no hope. For now there is hope, maybe there is hope, but there isn’t very much the architect’s alcohol-addled mind can do to stop his stylus from stuttering into silence on the having traced but ruined remnants of an outline. 

He cannot tell Ruby that, nor can he tell her that the alleged demigod’s fingers instead traced new maps, new mazes, new memories that haunt Qrow’s body as they cartographed his skin, just as his mouth whispered into Qrow’s ear that it was alright, that he was doing his best, that he deserved to be held and touched and worshipped in all his imperfect entirety. He cannot tell her that he tilted his head just so that Clover’s lips were on his, and they forgot everything, everything but pure bliss. But he does not tell her that as he presses on with his story.

“So we came up with the idea of a thread, and Winter extracted a long enough one from her weaving loom to hide it in Clover’s armour. As he walked into the maze, he spun out the wire at each of his steps so that he could retrace his way out. No one knows what happened inside, only that he emerged from the maze bloodied, but victorious, and most importantly, alive.”

“So Clover married the Princess, and they lived happily ever after?”

“He whisked her away on his proud ship, and I don’t know what became of them after that. I only know that the King somehow caught wind of our trick, and punished me by throwing both you and I into this labyrinth and sealing the entrance. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that the design of this maze, the work of my lifetime, turned out to be me digging my own grave, and digging your own grave to watch you perish by my side. You didn’t deserve this. You did nothing to deserve this.”

“The story doesn’t have to end like this,” she answers. “It doesn’t have to end here.”

Her silver eyes bore through his gaze, through to the cloudless sky overhead, the perfectly pure azure only marred by ominous murders of crows. A small smile forms atop her lips, and he may be tired, he may be hopeless, but he is still curious.

“What’s so funny, kiddo?”

“Uncle Qrow, there’s a feather in your hair.”

* * *

It is hard to tell how much time has elapsed.

Qrow had specifically instructed for the marble walls and floor to be harder than any blade, and for no pebble, not even a slightest single speck of stone, to be found in the maze so that those in search for a way out could never dent the walls to mark their path. So days have elapsed, nights have elapsed, but it has gotten hard, if not impossible, to count them when one cannot leave one trace for every moonrise or sunrise. At one point, they find a beehive, but all the wax and honey gets used to make their wings.

Their skins are dirty, sunburnt, and swollen from bee stings, but still, they glue on every feather they can find along a pattern Qrow has copied from watching birds’ wings aflutter when they take flight. 

Qrow nods at Ruby before they race along the longest straight stretch in the maze, wings outspread, and then they take flight.

There is a strange silence as he soars, his heartbeat pounding at his temples, his wings whipping through the air to keep him afloat, the winds mercilessly howling at his eardrums. The silence is deafening, everything else, the chirping birds, even Ruby’s excited shouts fading insignificantly into the distance. He barely dares look down, he barely dares look at her, but he knows he must look, for he must catch her if she should fall…

So he looks at her. He looks down. And then he sees it.

The labyrinth, as he only imagined in his dreams, as he only cartographed in his maps, its dark corridors and pale walls nothing more than abstract lines and curves. Those walls that kept prisoners, those corridors where so many lives ended… from this high up, they are no more than perfect geometry, than intertwined symmetries sprouted from the dreamlike vision of one visionary man when he still had hopes, when he still had dreams. 

This is like a dream, but the exhilaration rushing through his body, the adrenaline coursing through his arteries remind him that he is awake. This is like a dream, but sharper, more detailed. Summoning all his courage to peer down, he sees crowds flow like water through the streets of the city, he sees ships scurry in the harbour like bees in a hive, like inconsequential nothings before the immense blue sea. For the wind pushes them out to the sea like it pushes the waves, and soon all Qrow and Ruby see beneath them is blue, expanses of blue, an endlessness of blue.

Before them, the horizon is elusive, blurry as blue meets blue embroidered with silver seafoam, with silver clouds. The horizon is out of reach, but they must press on, for they must fly as far from Jacques Schnee’s kingdom as possible if they want to live free. 

For they are free now, if only briefly, and there is nothing to contain their flight, there are no landmarks to remind them where they are headed, or how high or low they fly…

Maybe that is why Ruby soars to the skies before his eyes. Or maybe she flew too low, got saltwater in her wings, and needs to dry it off with more sunlight, and that is why she is drawn to the sun like a moth to a flame. He did warn her not to fly too close, lest the wax keeping her wings together melt off, leaving her to plummet to a certain death…

He did warn her, but now it is too late to shout, to scream - she will not hear him over the rushing winds and the deafening beating of her own wings…

He did warn her, and he did also promise her to catch her if she falls… but now her feathers melt off and start to scatter like petals in the wind...

Flapping his feathers frantically, he rises toward her, rises past her, rises above her. Attached to his lengthy limbs, his widespread gliding wings cast a shadow upon her smaller form, preventing her feathery appendages from melting away. He feels the wax and honey starting to liquefy upon his shoulder blades, he feels incandescent liquid burning into his tunic, searing his skin, but he must stay strong, he must get a hold of her and dive down, dive away from the sun, from the light, from the unbearable heat…

The scent of molten wax and charred skin causes his stomach to churn, but he must catch her. Catch her, and hold onto her. The tingling burns spread and dance across his shoulders and arms, the pain is blinding, and the light is blinding, and there is nothing he can do when feathers detach from his wings, falling down, falling up, scattering around them as they dive… There is nothing he can do but holding onto her, shielding her, protecting her…

But they fall too fast. His wings melt off too fast under the scorching sunlight as he desperately tries to shield her, and soon he is a dead weight, a dead weight writhing in pain and only dragging her down, further down toward the deep blue sea. 

So he whispers into her ear. Or perhaps he screams, his pain-riddled mind cannot make sense of anything anymore. All he knows is he tells her to spread her wings. To fly on her own. 

And she does. 

As he plummets toward the cold, deadly waves, he sees her rise, he sees her glide, he sees her fly, and she keeps moving on. She flies at the right altitude, she flies toward the horizon, and she keeps moving on. 

He smiles. 

As his falling form accelerates downward, dangerously downward, most of his feathers shed and leaving nothing but trails of fuming wax and honey against his skin, he catches glimpses of blue - seafoam streaked blue - cloud streaked blue - the world is pain and nothing makes sense…

Everything is too hot. His skin is burning, his body is on fire, his world is on fire. But the surface of the water is hard, too hard, too cold, and then suddenly everything is too cold, and too dark…

He cannot tell for how long he remained stunned, his consciousness wavering at the brutal collision with the sea’s surface while falling at that speed. He can only tell that underwater, the silence is different, the silence is a grave, and this will be his grave. He flails, he struggles, he tries to scream, but this will be his grave. His heart flutters like panicked birds attempting to take flight, but this will be his grave. 

Through deep blue water, a golden sunlight filters, far away, too far away, illuminating scattered feathers and fleeting bubbles that dance before his fading field of vision… His lungs are on fire, his lungs are full of water, and he cannot breathe, he cannot even gasp, he does not even have the strength to keep fighting as the waves around him pull him into the abyss...

* * *

Once, James had never thought he would hear the sea ever again. He remembers the tide being the first thing he ever heard. Maybe he was born in one of the palace’s rooms that overlooks the beach. Or maybe the sound he remembers is that steady pulsation of his mother’s heartbeat, like a lullaby, like a certainty. There was safety in knowing that the gentle sound would never go away, as long as the moon pulled the tide. There was a safety that sounded neverending.

Until it ended. 

Until her heartbeat was no more. Until he was thrown into the maze, far away from the sea, so that Jacques Schnee could use him as a weapon to eliminate his enemies.

James had never thought he’d ever taste the sea in his life. Saltwater tastes like metal, tastes like blood. James has been raised on the taste of blood, on nothing but the taste of human blood. As soon as the King saw him as a monster, James was raised as a monster, fed only on human flesh. Then he was thrown into the maze, and killing was surviving, killing the brave or desperate men who were released inside was the only way to feed, to live to see the sun and moon another day, to live to hope to see the sea one day.

He had never thought he would see or taste the sea, until he met Clover. 

Clover was different from the beginning. Every other warrior that finally stumbled upon him in the labyrinth had a crazed terror shivering within their eyes, a certainty that if James didn’t kill them, the maze would, and dying at the hands of the monster was comparably a faster and more merciful death. Clover, however, had hope. Clover, however, knew he could follow his thread out, and he fought with grace, he fought with confidence, he fought with strength. 

They fought for days, they fought for nights, they fought for what seemed as forever until they both tasted like blood, like sweat, like tears. Until they could no longer go on, until they would eventually succumb from their festering wounds. James would have been content to bend the knee and wish for a swift death under Clover’s sword, so that one of them would at least escape alive. James would have been resigned to ever hear the sea again.

Until Clover told him it was possible. Until Clover showed him there was an escape. That he could escape, too. Clover told him he’d fought bravely, so that must be because he wanted to live, because he still had something to live for. Clover asked him what that was, and truly that was not much. Just to hear that peaceful lullaby that haunts his oldest memories again, to hear the waves slosh and splash on the sandy shore. 

He only had to play dead as the demigod dragged him out of the maze, following the thread like a lifeline, like their only lifeline. He only had to play dead as his pretend carcass was dragged to Clover’s ship, kept as a supposed trophy, and then he kept his eyes closed, and he heard it. The sea, ebbing and flowing against the side of the ship, rocking and lulling him softly. 

When he heard it, he knew he was home. 

Home is where Clover is. Home is this simple fisherman’s village, outside the bustling citadel where Clover’s parents reign. Home is the safety of Clover’s arms, the softness of his caress, the gentleness of those fingers that wield the deadly sword and mighty shield are capable of. Home is the slow silence, the tender hesitation as gratitude for sparing each other’s lives turns into respect, respect turns into companionship, and slowly but surely, companionship turns to love, just as each wave seamlessly coalesces into the next. 

Home is walking on the beach in the morning before sunrise and smelling the sea, tasting the sea, and not having to taste human flesh ever again. 

Except that James’s trained nostrils can pick it up now - wafting in the briny breeze, the faint but recognisable scent of human blood. 

His heavy steps leaving deep footprints in the sand, he jogs along the shoreline, senses keenly searching for the source of the smell. Soon, he finds it. Where the sand meets the sea and sky, there is red. There is red leaking into the water, full of floating feathers and melted wax. There are red-stained wings, or rather the mangled remains of wings, spread across the sand and seafoam, stemming from the shoulders and arms what is left of a man. 

James’s instincts scream at him. His instincts to kill. His instincts to feed, to survive, instincts that have kept him afloat for a lifetime. The man is barely stirring, barely breathing, seawater heavy in his lungs, burns crawling down his shoulders and arms where the wax melted and the feathers fell away. Ending his life would have been a merciful move. 

But James’s instincts scream something different. They scream something incoherent. They scream something he cannot ignore. They scream as loud as the man’s faint, fluttering heartbeat, weak but as regular as the lulling tide. As they painfully, silently blink open, his eyes are red, red like blood albeit an infinitely gentler shade like a promise of a thousand sunrises cresting where the sky and sea meet. 

James’s instincts are screaming, but he listens to the silence, he listens to the tide, and he must do something. He is not sure what, but he must do something. 

* * *

“Qrow. Qrow, wake up. I know you can hear me.”

The voice sounds distant, if somewhat familiar. Qrow emits a small groan, almost disappointed to figure out his vocal cords still work given how parched and painful they feel. 

“Hmm… am I dead? I thought the Underworld would be darker...”

He would have preferred the Underworld to be darker. Here, everything is too bright. Even the red behind his shut eyelids is too blindingly bright. His eyes burn, his eyes hurt, everything hurts. 

“Qrow, it’s okay. You’re alive. You’re safe here.”

Blearily, the architect’s eyes blink open, and he never thought he would ever see that shade of sea green eyes again. 

This cannot be true. This cannot be. This cannot be...

“Clover? What happened...”

A genuine smile graces the demigod’s lips, folds crinkling the corner of his eyes.

“The current carried you here, just as it carries everything here from Schnee’s kingdom. James found you on the seashore while patrolling and he rescued you. I had to get the water out of your lungs, and then James and I tended to your wounds and...”

“Hold on… you and who?”

”James. You may have known him as… actually, I don’t think you knew each other at all.”

Qrow’s eyelids flutter again as his sight adjusts to his surroundings, to the small white bedroom, to the tall shadow standing behind Clover’s back. The dark silhouette is different, inhuman, yet recognisable. Qrow has seen it painted on plates and vases depicting the vile creature in the maze - the body of a man, almost unnaturally tall and broad-shouldered, each muscle and proportion the picture perfect portrait of peak physical condition, for the paintings did not lie. 

The body of a man, atop of which rests a head that is in many ways misshapen, where it is impossible to distinguish where silky dark human hair stops and where thick black animal hide starts. The soft black beard can only do so much to conceal his strong, solemn jaw that looks slightly more oxen than man. Amidst ashen fur and alabaster skin, his cobalt gaze is as sad as that of a puppy born deformed, yet as brave as that of the statues and heroes from old myths and legends. He is no hero, however, for the tall, curved horns and bovine ears atop his head betray him as a monster, as the monster Clover was supposed to kill, as the monster who somehow, despite everything, chose to save Qrow.

“Hey, Jimmy,” the injured man says tiredly. “Thanks for saving me.”

“You sound famished and dehydrated,” James replies flatly. “Now that you’re awake, I should bring you water and fish soup.”

There is an awkward glint in the minotaur’s eyes as he turns tail and walks away, leaving Qrow alone with Clover.

“James is right, you need food, water, and rest,” the demigod says. “You suffered severe burns on your arms and back when James found you, and you were unbelievably fortunate not to have any broken bones from that fall. You were unconscious for two days, you must be famished.”

“... two days? And Ruby...”

He jolts upright in the bed at the realisation, only for a wave of dizziness to wash over him after the sudden effort. Luckily, Clover is there to catch him in a strong, warm embrace.

“Don’t worry, Qrow, she’s alive and well. I caught wind of a child with wings like yours, that the breeze brought to a nearby village just like the current carried you here. Last I heard, she hitched a hike on a fisherman’s boat sailing toward Patch, a couple of hours south of here.”

“Patch… that’s where her father and sister stay… thanks for telling me, thanks for everything...”

There is too much to say, too much to be thankful for, and Qrow does not know where to begin. He knows where it ends, however, he knows where all the paths must lead, he knows what Clover must want in exchange. Grabbing the lapel of his tunic, he pulls the demigod in for a brief, breathless kiss. 

The brunette’s lips are warm, soft, pliant, perfect. There is a symmetry about that cupid’s bow that has been haunting his memories, more beautiful than any curve or any angle that Qrow’s mind could ever dream of in the mazes of his designs and dreams. He lets his eyelids slide close as he conveys all that words cannot say into the touch, all the gratitude, all the admiration, all the memories and all the hopes… Hopes that Clover may reciprocate, too, but his mouth remains as still as a statue. His lips are perfect, pliant, but he does not kiss back, and through the darkness Qrow’s mind spirals out, trying to understand why, trying to review all the recent events his injured body and confused mind may have forgotten...

“I apologise,” the architect says hoarsely as their lips part. “You have a wife now.”

Qrow forgot. Of course he forgot. How could he forget?

Clover blinks in confusion before understanding dawns upon his even features.

“Princess Winter? We parted ways cordially, she didn’t want an unknown foreigner like me to meddle in the affairs of her kingdom if she can avoid it. I left her on a nearby island, where she’s negotiating for military support from her friend Queen Robyn and her warriors to raise an army and take back her father’s kingdom.”

"I didn't know, but still, Clover, I'm sorry…"

"Shhh… we're not doing all of this from you in exchange for anything, or expecting anything. James and I both owed you our lives, without your thread idea we would have been trapped in the maze forever. But even if we owed you nothing, we'd have saved you anyway, just because we can. James and I are… happily involved with one another, we don't need you to throw yourself at either of us if that's not what you want."

"Do you not want me to?"

There is shock - shock at Qrow's own blindness to what has been happening right before his eyes, incomprehension at the slight ambiguity of Clover's words, fear that he might not be wanted, liked, likable anymore now that he is broken in so many ways, in so many places under these bandages...

"Right now, we want you to rest, maybe have a little sleep. I'll come wake you when the soup is ready."

Exhausted after all that confusion, Qrow hardly takes long before drifting into a deep, dreamless slumber.

* * *

“I saw you, you know,” James says.

There is a safe regularity in the sound of the wooden spoon as Clover stirs the soup over the fire while the minotaur meticulously chops the herbs, in the sound of Qrow's soft snore in the room next door.

“James, you don’t understand… I’d only seduced him to know the way in and out of the maze, to be able to get to you...”

“I do understand,” James answers. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know why I really believed you would want to stay with me, when you could have people like him. People like you. Humans, not monsters like me.”

“You are not a monster.”

There is a safety, but in safety there is tension, a tension that dares not be broken.

“Then stop looking away. Look at me.”

James’s touch is feather-light against Clover’s shoulder, yet it is enough to make him turn around just enough to face his lover, and for a second James feels in control. James used to be in control. In the maze, the walls were smooth, the floor was even underfoot, the stars above never strayed from their orbits and constellations, and everything was under control. Now, everything escapes him, even Clover escapes him, everything spirals out of his grasp and into uncertainty...

“I’m looking at you. I love you.”

This should sound like certainty. This should sound like the truth.

“And yet you don’t look at him so differently,” James states plainly.

“How could I not? He’s caring, selfless, brilliant, and he’s broken inside and out, he needs and deserves to be cared for...”

“I’ve gathered from what you said and from the winged girl’s story that this man was the one to design the maze. It’s because of this man that I was kept as a prisoner all alone for all my life, and yet he is the one you’ve admitted to choosing and to liking, right before my eyes...”

“I wasn’t admitting to… okay. I wasn’t seeing it that way. I’m sorry I hurt you, it’s all my fault.”

“I accept your apologies, but I can’t help but notice you still don’t deny your affections for him.”

Maybe James wonders if he made the right decision rescuing Qrow. Maybe there are clouds that pass through his azure gaze. Maybe it is a sign that rain is coming, that a storm is coming.

“The sea is calm,” Clover declares, handing soup duties over to James. “I should go out to fish. This might be the only chance I have before the storm rises.”

* * *

“It hurts,” Qrow seethes through gritted teeth.

“I know. Just hold on tight, it’s almost over.”

Clover’s voice, Clover’s hands, Clover’s steady breathing are nothing but reassurance, but gentleness as he spreads the poultice onto Qrow’s burns before replacing his bandages. But after salt water was applied to disinfect the wounds, every touch feels like a thousand needles sinking into his skin.

“It’d hurt less if you stopped wriggling so much, Qrow.”

“I can’t help it, there isn’t much to hold onto.”

The sand underfoot is wet and soft, the waves ebb and flow around them as the seawater continues to burn and bite at the architect’s damaged skin. The only anchor of stability is that one flat rock atop which James sits, dutifully grinding the medicinal herbs for a soothing ointment inside a stone mortar. There is still that nervousness between them, like lightning strayed from the past storm, fizzled out but not quite extinguished, and James will still mostly avoid talking to Qrow, while still agreeing to help. 

“You can hold onto my horns, Qrow,” the minotaur suggests, never looking up from his work.

Somehow, James still agrees to help. Somehow, his horns fit perfectly under Qrow’s lengthy fingers, and they are smooth and warm. Somehow, things could be worse. 

* * *

Despite Clover’s pleas, Qrow insists to help. He is not fully recovered yet, but he insists to help with whatever he can. Which, in this case, involves using his invention skills, in his own words, to ‘optimise that rudimentary contraption that lucky charm over there dares call a fishing rod’. 

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” the demigod speaks softly, watching Qrow as he faces the sea, adjusting the pulleys along the side of the upgraded device, seemingly without much luck at fishing. 

“Huh, at least you might end up with a useful fishing rod, and something good will come out of all of this.”

An easy smile graces Clover’s lips.

“You know, good things have already come out of all of this. The labyrinth has been sealed, and no one will be imprisoned there anymore. It’s been sealed, and we’re all free from it now, so we can call ourselves lucky. ”

“Lucky? Wouldn’t you chalk at least some of that up to talent?” Qrow snarks back.

“I would, maybe,” the fisherman gives a small chuckle.

They are all free now, facing the vastness of the sea and sky, and that is definitely fortunate.

“But Jacques Schnee is still on the throne, and sooner or later, he’ll devise a new way to send his political opponents to a slow and painful death.”

“I have to admit I thought that things would be easier once I won Winter’s hand. But of course I should have anticipated that she wouldn’t trust me, and all I could do was take her away from her father.”

“That was probably the right move. You did your best, lucky charm.”

“Thanks, Qrow. I just don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

“Only time will tell.”

Time is slow and quiet, like the waves lapping at the rocks and at Qrow’s unfortunate fishing line, still without a catch.

“Nothing biting yet? This area is usually full of fish at this time.”

“Nope. Must be just my luck, sorry about that.”

“I don’t know what you mean...”

“Just like how I got Ruby imprisoned with me, even though she was innocent?”

“The King’s cruelty is not your fault.”

“Just like she almost burned her wings and drowned on my watch?”

“But you saved her in time. She’s fine now.”

“Just like you and James rescued me, and all I managed to do to thank you was ruin that cute little honeymoon of yours?”

“You… what… excuse me?”

“Jimmy and you haven’t been on the best of terms since I got here. Even a blind person could see that clear as daylight.”

“It’s just a little difficult for James to see me care for a human, and one of my past loves what’s more.”

“Especially when it’s that one human who designed the prison he was trapped in for almost all of his life,” Qrow adds grimly. “I’m truly sorry. I just hope he isn’t just your latest little conquest, like I was, because he looks like he does truly care for you.”

“You know, despite the feelings I used to feel for you… and that I still feel for you,” Clover adds slowly, carefully, “I don’t love him less. I love him differently, not just because you’re a human and he’s… different, but because he’s him and you’re you. If anything, I love him even more, because I’m grateful for everything he does for you even though he doesn’t like you, even though your very presence upsets our newfound routines he likes and needs. He was trained to fight and kill from the youngest age, and yet he found that instinct to care and protect within him, and I… by Aphrodite, I am in love.”

“You know, it would help if you told him that. Healthy communication among couples, and all that.”

“But how can I tell him? What if he can’t accept it? What if he can’t bear the idea of sharing me, even if just in thought, because of the feelings I have for you?”

“That would be understandable. But there is only one way to find out.”

With that, Qrow gives a firm tug on the line, gasping in pain as Clover rushes at his aid. Not to reveal fish struggling at the end of the line, but a fully grown minotaur breaking the water’s surface, having remained in hiding the whole time at the concealed end of the wire. Both the human and the demigod watch in awe as James emerges from the waves, rivulets of briny water trickling down each sharp angle and sinewy muscle of his body. His scars are conduits for the salty sea, a testament that all those who tried to kill him failed, and surviving only made him stronger. Stronger, but not more heartless.

“Given that it held my weight, I think the improved fishing rod is quite resistant,” James judges, running a hand through his soaked hair and fur.

“Hey, James...” Clover stutters, progressively realising this was all a ploy Qrow and the minotaur devised to get him to confess his true feelings.

“Hey, Clover,” James teases back, before pulling his lover into a wet, passionate kiss.

Letting out a small, surprised gasp, the demigod remains frozen for a short instant before responding eagerly, letting his eyelids slide desperately closed before the burning sunset.

“Get a room, you two,” Qrow sighs, smirking to himself as he turns away from them, seemingly gaining sudden interest in the end of his fishing line and the prospect he might finally be able to catch something.

* * *

“You’re smiling.”

Clover’s whispers are muffled, his face buried against James’s chest as they lay entwined on the bed in the wake of their revived passion following the demigod’s confession. There is a bliss that follows, and the brunette can still not believe this happened, can still not believe James is really okay with the way he feels. There is a rare quietness as he listens to the minotaur’s heartbeat slowing back down to a staccato, an equally rare grin gracing his lips. 

“That’s an astute observation,” James muses, pressing a soft kiss to Clover’s unkempt chestnut hair. 

“I haven’t seen you smile this much lately… I love to see it.”

They remain like that for long instants, sweaty skin pressed against sweaty skin as they cradle and caress each other distractedly, wishing this could last forever. 

“Hold on, James… are you thinking of Qrow?”

A brief, low chuckle thrumming against the brunette’s eardrum.

“Maybe.”

“Do you… like him?!”

James blinks almost bashfully at the hopeful light in his lover’s teal eyes.

“How could I not,” the minotaur replies with a small, earnest grin. “I didn’t expect him to help us out. But he did.”

“And it worked.”

“We should do something for him, something nice.”

A pause. They can almost hear the zephyr over the sea, just outside the window.

“Patch is just across the bay from us… maybe I can figure something out.” 

* * *

“This feels like flying! This feels exactly like flying!”

Her windswept hair is dark and copper-streaked in the young sunset, her silver eyes are still clear and youthful, but Ruby has already seen what mortal eyes have never seen before, she has already experienced that humans have never experienced before. The feeling of winds buffeting her makeshift wings, the feeling of soaring, the freedom, the freefall, the fear and exhilaration. 

“I take your word for it, pipsqueak,” Qrow grunts as he races across the beach, her puny weight perched atop his shoulders with her arms outstretched on either side of her.

She is not heavy, especially not after days of starvation back in the maze. But he is not as strong as he used to be - or at least, he is not strong yet. The scarred skin on his shoulders has healed, though it still itches where she sits, it itches where the wind blows. They may be out of trouble now, it may all be over and they may have survived, but recovery is hard, every step of the way is hard. He runs halfway across the shore before his knees wobble and fold over, leaving him breathless and panting as he keels over in the soft, wet sand.

Perhaps that is further than he could have run yesterday. Or perhaps not. That does not really matter. What matters is that she is safe, and he cushions her fall as she playfully tumbles into his lap, her hair still tousled from her ‘flight’. She is safe, and she is here with him, all thanks to Clover and James sailing over to Patch to collect her so she can visit her uncle for the day.

“Uncle Qrow? Uncle Qrow, are you okay?”

“Just… give me a second...”

Speckles of black prance across his field of vision as her voice fleetingly fades into the distance, her tone indistinct as if water fills his ears. His lungs are drowning, his lungs are burning, he struggles to catch his breath, he struggles to feel each grain against his palm as the wet sand crumbles and the earth turns under his hands, and his heart lurches.

“Take it easy, Qrow. It’s okay, we can take it from there.”

Clover’s voice is as gentle as the lulling tide, and Qrow can focus on the blurry movement of those soft, perfect lips for brief seconds. He cannot, however, emit more than a weak whimper in protest when the brunette easily scoops him up from the sand, easily carrying him across the beach. There is the familiar clatter of Ruby’s laughter as she rides atop James’s broad shoulders, six feet off the ground and clinging onto his horns for dear life as he runs playful circles on the sand, leaving footprints the rising tide quickly erases.

“The sun is setting,” Clover says softly as he carries the architect inside so that he can rest in the bed. “I’ll have to take Ruby home soon, lest her father and sister worry.”

“Thanks, lucky charm. That means a lot to me, you have no idea.”

“Shhh, save your strength, and get some rest. I will be back soon.”

* * *

Qrow did not realise he fell asleep, until he cracks a tired eye open and a sliver of early moonlight drifts in through the window. Letting out a long yawn, he stretches across the bed before carefully sitting up, relieved that the sea sounds quiet outside, and Clover and Ruby likely sailed back to Patch safely. Judging by the moon and stars, the night is still young, and there is a possibility Clover is still on his way back. 

“Are you awake?” James asks in the doorway, noticing the sound of Qrow stirring in the bed. “Clover should be here any minute.”

“Right. Thanks for everything, you really didn’t have to...”

“Ruby is a lovely young woman. Besides, neither did you have to help me and Clover mend our relationship, but you still did.”

There is a sudden warmth as James sits next to Qrow on the bed, their shoulders almost touching.

“That’s the least I could do, after basically crash landing into your love life and messing everything up, as I always do.”

“On the contrary, meeting you and your niece was one of the only good things that ever happened to me. Ruby is a lovely young woman.”

“She is. She takes after her parents, who are in no way related to me.”

James quirks an inquisitive brow, but doesn’t pry further. 

“Are her parents very strong?”

“Her father’s… actually, both her parents are powerhouses. Why?”

“... She squeezed my horns quite tightly, I must admit.”

“Did it hurt?” Qrow raises a hesitant hand toward the pointy appendages, running a fingertip along the smooth, curved side.

“No.”

What did he expect, for a fearful monster… no, a fearful warrior to admit being pained by the tiny hands of a little girl? The bony surfaces are surprisingly warm and textured under Qrow’s digits, and James can hardly repress a startled grumble in response.

“But you can feel it.”

“Y-yes...”

“Do you… like this?” Qrow tilts his head with the slightest of smirks, fingers experimentally rummaging up and down the curved appendage.

“Yes… it’s nice. No one has ever really done this before.”

“Clover doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“I don’t know why the texture would be pleasing to the touch,” the minotaur shrugs, awkwardly caressing his own horn to verify.

“It’s just that… your reaction is priceless.”

His reaction is adorable. His barely contained squirms of pure pleasure are adorable. His bovine ears twitch and his cheekbones blush at the touch. But Qrow feels nervous phrasing this, running anxious fingers through his feathery hair.

“Y-you know… you really don’t have to. You don’t have to reciprocate what Clover and I feel, you don’t have to if it’s out of obligation...”

“But I want to.”

The symmetry is appealing. The symmetry, if Clover cares for both of them, that they can find love together, is as alluring as perfect stars upon distant skies. The symmetry is alluring, but James is even more so. The imperfections, the scars that map his body without geometry like haphazardly intertwined vines, a far cry from the straight edges of neat constellations, the proportions, not fully human, but not fully monstrous either. 

There is no symmetry, for there are no paths ahead, as Qrow’s fingers venture tentatively down the base of James’s horns to tiptoe to the middle of his head, where thick hide and soft hair mingle into one warm, abstract, fuzzy feeling. Running his index alongside one of the fluffy cow ears, he scratches the spot between the horns, slowly, with infinite tenderness. The minotaur’s nostrils flare in a shaky exhale, encouraging Qrow’s hand to move down, further down, gently down.

“You still like this?”

All that James can muster is a small nod, impenetrable cobalt eyes blinking deliberately.

There is no path, there are no maps, no mazes, no walls to keep his fingertips from wandering, from exploring. There are no fates, no way he can connect the dots like one connects the stars to navigate at night, but there is a leisurely pace at which Qrow caresses down James’s forehead, down his nose, playfully teasing the tip of a bushy brow on the way. There is a certainty when the architect leans in, pressing their foreheads together as if gravity made them belong together, as if they made gravity pull them together, to remain like that always. 

“Is this still okay?” Qrow murmurs, stealing seconds from silence, from eternity.

“More than okay.”

There is no path, there is no fate, and yet their lips somehow meet in the middle in a soft, tentative contact. It is an unfinished song, an unspoken promise. There is no fate, there is no love, or at least, not yet, to keep them joined, and so they part, but only to kiss again, and again and again. There is no love just yet, but as they find each other blindly, as they map each other silently, memorising each crease and each line and each brokenness, they learn to love, for Clover’s sake and for their own scarred, unshakeable sakes. 

And for a second behind his shut eyelids, Qrow can see all of the man, of the monster, shattered and scattered like stardust, but still whole, still willing to protect and give and trust and love despite everything, because of everything. 

Qrow tilts his head, allowing James deeper access that the minotaur claims gladly, that unfamiliar tongue adoring each corner of him. He revels in the foreign taste, the musky scent, the shape of unnaturally large, inhuman teeth, wanting more, craving more, needing more of that touch, of that taste, of that everything. His fingers tangle James’s hair, gripping his horns for balance as they tumble into the bed among the crinkled sheets, their loose tunics becoming but mere inconveniences, easily peeled off. 

They know where this is going, they both know where this is going, there may be no paths, no fates, but they both know where James’s tongue is heading, travelling around the angle of the architect’s stubbly chin, grazing his adam’s apple before tracing down the centre of his chest, where hard planes of pale skin come to coalesce. 

“But Clover -” Qrow exhales as that skillful tongue dances toward his navel, eliciting a volley of soft moans.

“- is more than okay with this,” a familiar voice echoes from the doorsill, causing them to turn and face the delectable sight of dilated pupils within wide teal eyes.

Clover has been watching. Clover has been watching for a while, clearly enjoying it, and this only eggs them on further, drawing James licks further down, inexorably down… There is a tremor that trickles down Qrow’s spine as a hot tongue tip trails along his manhood, tracing meticulously, religiously from the base to the tip. Then a wet warmth engulfs his length, consuming his mind, searing lips applying just enough pressure to make him squirm, sucking him relentlessly, him adoring reverently. 

Only then do the moonlight shadows move - there is a faint click and the scent of olive oil, and then the demigod’s fingers are upon Qrow too, wrecking him, worshipping him. Those large hands, hardened by wielding deadly swords, calloused by handling rough fishing lines, part his legs gently, ever so gently, caressing every groove of his puckered opening before nimble digits, slick with oil, ever so softly sink into him, seeking the darkness within him and painting it with the scent of olive oil, the scent that reminds him of trees on the hill under the golden sunlight. 

Even flying, even freefalling never felt this exhilarating, each pore, each sense of his body stimulated and saturated with a million sensations. Qrow’s back shivers and spasms, sparks dancing across his skin from his scalp to the tip of his desperately curled up toes amongst the sheets. The only anchor he finds amidst the storm is the point of contact between his calves and James’s horns, and he hooks his legs onto them, holds onto them as if for dear life as a silent question crests within the minotaur’s ocean blue eyes. A question to which Qrow can only nod, surrendering in relentless trust. 

Qrow knows about architecture, about lines, about proportions. James’s member is proportionate to his size, yet the sheer length, the sheer width, the sheer everything takes him by surprise, his body and soul stretched. As precisely and meticulously as he does everything, the minotaur thrusts his hips eagerly, exploring the tightness within Qrow, marking his walls with the memory of him until he finds the way through the maze, until he finds the angle that makes the architect writhe and moan with pure pleasure. James growls at that, the vibration travelling till the tip of his horns and thrumming through Qrow’s ankles, still resting atop the bony appendages. 

Guided by his lovers’ hands, Clover clambers onto the architect’s abdomen, kneeling among the sheets as he reclines against James’s chest, finally disrobed and prepared. Not that he is inefficient, but the sight before him proves quite distracting, and Qrow has to playfully unclasp his tunic before pulling him into a wet, sloppy kiss. Clover’s lips still taste like the sea, and there is a briny breeze upon their mouths when they pull away, just as the demigod sinks down onto Qrow’s weeping erection, ready to ride him into the silver moonrise. 

Qrow knows his battered body, his overstimulated senses unused to this much attention will not last long, but he revels in every second while it lasts, in his lover’s crazed cadenzas, Clover’s enthusiastic, erratic rhythm and James’s controlled regularity that creases the fabric of time, sending his partners whimpering and unravelling...

There is a steadiness about how James’s pace slows and stutters, there is a deliberateness every time his member rams into Qrow with that earth-shattering strength that crashes through his core with the inevitable certainty of a tidal wave. And as long as the moon still shines and pulls the tide, as long as James still thrusts into him, Qrow arches his hips and slams into Clover’s entrance, burying himself deep into the demigod’s body and drawing the most delectable screams as tears well like seawater in aqua eyes. 

And through the tears, through the darkness, Clover’s hands reach out blindly, caressing the moonlit surface of Qrow’s abdomen, adoring the sensation of the minotaur’s erection creasing a gentle mound into the palm of his hand through Qrow’s skin every time he impales himself deeper into the architect’s body. Clover’s hands reach out blindly, finding and grasping one of his lover’s horns and pulling him forward to press their lips together. The angle is awkward, the demigod’s fingers desperately scrambling through James’s beard as their teeth clash and their tongues collide. But the mere sight of it, the mere wet, heated sight is enough to send Qrow, already dangerously teetering down to the edge, sent into a mind-breaking climax just as James’s searing seed floods his body, floods his mind, blanks out his soul. 

And this is freefall, and this is flight. There is nothing but skies, nothing but clouds and nothingness for a few, fleeting seconds as the world soars, the world sinks out of existence beneath the benevolent moonlight. Only then does he become aware of bodies moving around him, of Clover languidly touching and kissing James’s cow ears as the two of them, on either side of Qrow, embrace him timidly, securely, lovingly. 

The architect is barely coherent enough to try to mumble an apology for how his still recovering body could not last any longer, but he is promptly hushed by Clover’s gentle lips, whispering sweet, reassuring nothings into his ears while James kisses Qrow’s mussed up hair. There will be plenty of time to rest and recover, and there will be time to try again. After all, the night is still young, and the moon is still high. 

* * *

Qrow is falling. Again. 

Every night he falls, in every dream he falls, and his wings catch on fire, and the world catches on fire, and he screams but all he hears is resounding silence. 

There is weightlessness as he freefalls, weightlessness as his hair and feathers float and whip and claw at his face as if given a life of their own.

There is weightlessness, fleeting weightlessness before he inevitably breaks the surface. 

Then, he resurfaces suddenly.

He wakes, slightly startled, but for a moment he likes to keep his eyes closed and bask in that floating space between wakefulness and slumber, because that is a different weightlessness. 

In that weightlessness, he can feel the crinkled sheets lightly pressed against his skin, he can feel his sleeping lovers’ intermingled respirations lulling him like an inevitable tide. In that weightlessness, he can feel James’s fuzzy hide tickling his skin, he can reach over just so and scratch behind the minotaur’s ears and revel in the soft touch of James’s ears twitching merrily in his sleep, he can feel Clover’s arms holding him securely, cradling his lithe torso adorned in faint burn scars. 

Right now, the scars are not painful. Not too long ago, they still hurt. Maybe tomorrow, they will still hurt. Maybe the next hour, maybe the next minute, they will still hurt. Or maybe not. Maybe today he will be able to venture into the sea with Clover and James, further than he ventured last week, without the memories of frozen waves pulling him under returning to haunt him. Or maybe not. 

But this does not matter right now, as long as there is weightlessness, as long as he rests in the safe, warm embrace of both his lovers and nothing can hurt them anymore. 

And this sensation of weightlessness, he definitely does not mind at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I was at a conference and kinda got snowed under work, so that's why this is a full week late... still, Banan I hope you had a good birthday!


End file.
